


Lethe

by lyricwritesprose



Series: Stars [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Beelzebub Is Not Nice, Deception, M/M, Manipulation, Temporary Amnesia, Will Post Daily Chapters, completed fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-23 07:43:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23208040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyricwritesprose/pseuds/lyricwritesprose
Summary: Crowley has lost his memory—the last six thousand years of it—and he would do anything to get it back.  Beelzebub tells Crowley zie knows how to cure him.  All he has to do is kill an angel.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Stars [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1538347
Comments: 137
Kudos: 292
Collections: Good Omens Celebration





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have seen quite a few temporary amnesia fics for Aziraphale, but none for Crowley, so I decided to try to write one. This is my first foray into this genre, so I hope I don't disappoint.

The secret was, Eve wanted to.

She was curious. She was curious about everything, from what was at the tops of trees to what happened if you shoved pomegranate pips up your nose.  _ Of course _ she was curious about the apple tree she wasn’t allowed to touch. All it took to get the apple in her mouth was a delicate chain of words that led, like a Garden path, from where she was to where she wanted to be, with juice running down her chin.

Crawley was both proud of the technique, and somewhat taken aback by how  _ easy _ it had been.

The next thing that took him aback, of course, was the catastrophic overreaction to what was, after all, a fairly  _ minor _ bit of trouble. He didn’t hear the voice of God—was that a symptom of his Fall, or a mercy?—but he saw Adam and Eve’s reactions, and then he saw—

There was a blank.

It felt, somehow, like a very big blank.

“Crawley,” Beelzebub said, and then, more sharply,  _ “Crawley!” _

Crawley opened his eyes.

It was night, and he was in an unfamiliar—garden? There was another one? Wearing unfamiliar, tight clothes, and reaching automatically for—something—he wasn’t sure what. Something was very wrong. He had forgotten something.

“Still alive, then?” Beelzebub said. Zie didn’t sound happy, but then, Beelzebub hadn’t sounded happy since the Fall.

“Still alive,” Crawley said. “What happened to me?”

“You were attacked.”

Crawley checked himself hastily. Definitely had a body. The body seemed to be working. He wasn’t sure how you inspected one for damage. “I’m all right,” he guessed. “Where are we?”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Adam and Eve. Being ejected from the Garden. Did they survive?” He wasn’t sure what made him ask the last. They didn’t  _ matter _ to him, surely?

Beelzebub stared at him. “This,” zie said at last, “izz going to be a problem.”

Anxiety rose in Crawley, and he made himself look uncaring. It felt like a reflex. “What’s going to be a problem?”

“I knew the angel attacked you with a memory destroying weapon. I had hoped that he only got a few yearzzz."

No. No, not his memory, not his  _ mind. _ "How much did he get?" Crawley demanded, his voice doing something funny. His insides felt like they were twisting. Like he had smaller serpents inside him.

"Crawley . . ."

Crawley had never heard Beelzebub sound  _ solicitous. _ It was all wrong.  _ "How much?" _

"Six thousand years," Beelzebub said finally. “Plus two decades.”

_ Six thousand— _

That wasn't just an injury. That—Crawley didn’t have words for that. It felt worse than Falling. The word  _ nightmare _ writhed through Crawley’s brain, and he knew what it meant despite never having slept, or having had one. It felt as if something vile would wrench itself loose inside of him and vomit out his mouth, and he knew what  _ vomit _ meant too. “There has to be a way to fix it.” He sounded desperate, even to himself. “How do I fix it?”

“You don’t,” Beelzebub said, and then amended reluctantly, “Probably.”

“If I  _ could _ fix it, how would I do it?”

“We know the weapon the angel used was tied to his essence. If there’zz a way to reverse the weapon without destroying that essence, we don’t know of it.”

“Destroy the angel, get my memory back,” Crawley said. “Got it.” He was being flippant—being instinctively flippant, it felt like—despite more bile rising in his throat. He had fought in the War, even though he’d managed to spend most of his time off of the front lines. Everyone had fought in the War. He—hadn’t enjoyed it.

“I forbid it,” Beelzebub said.

“They’re  _ my _ memories.”

“The angel Aziraphale has been on Earth for six thouzzzand yearzz, and in all of that time, you’ve never defeated him. He’s a clever, ruthless adversary. Without your memoriezz, you’re at an insurmountable disadvantage. You might as well be a child.”

Crawley knew what  _ child _ meant too. The concept came with curious tinges of emotion. “I’m going,” Crawley said, and turned around, and realized that he had no idea where to find this angel. He started walking anyway.

“Stop.” Beelzebub transported zirself to stand in front of him, and Crawley stopped. He didn’t want to pick a fight with Satan’s second-in-command. Beelzebub was clever enough to be dangerous to him and powerful enough to squash him without wrinkling zir brow. But he  _ had _ to try to restore his mind. “Please,” he tried.

Beelzebub grimaced. “Don’t do that, it’s disgusting.  _ Humanzz _ do that. Listen—” Zie reached behind themself. “If you won’t reconsider—”

“I won’t.”

“Then take this.”

Crawley took the dagger with a certain amount of trepidation. “Angel-slaying blade?"

“It should destroy him completely,” Beelzebub confirmed. “Better to get him from the back, if you can. Don’t let him talk. Under no circumstances should you let him talk to you.”

“Don’t worry,” Crawley said grimly, “I’m not interested in anything he has to say.”

Beelzebub smiled, and something about the smile was faintly unsettling. “Then let me give you our best information on where to find him.” Zie thought of something else. “Oh, and you’ll need these.”

_ These _ were a pair of dark glasses. "Why do I need these?" Crawley asked.

"Have you seen your eyes lately? Unpleazzant. And you don't want to waste your concentration diverting attention."


	2. Chapter 2

Crawley learned two things as he made his way through the human city of London.

The first was that the human world was  _ fascinating. _ Fantastical, intricate, alarming, amazing. He stopped for a long moment just to read movie posters—that background knowledge supplied him with what a movie was, and what a poster was, but no memories of ever having seen either.

He  _ wanted it back. _ He wanted it more than—well, more than he could remember wanting anything, anyway.

He also wanted a car. He resolved to steal one.

The second thing he learned was that he could smell something.

Exactly what he was smelling was an ongoing puzzle to him, one that occupied him as he made his way through the streets, following the map that Beelzebub had rather unceremoniously impressed on his mind. It was bright, and sweet, and somehow soft. Supernatural, but not a demon. Whether it was an angel or not—he spent a bit of time chewing on that, until he noticed that the scent was exactly in the direction that Beelzebub had told him to look for the angel Aziraphale.

It made a certain amount of sense, if he’d been up here fighting this angel for thousands of years, that he’d develop some sort of early warning system.

But if that was the case, how had the angel caught him flatfooted and hit him with the memory weapon?

And why hadn’t the angel destroyed him altogether?

And why did the scent strike him as  _ pleasant? _

He slowed and came to a stop in front of—the humans called it a bar, apparently. It was loud. He could feel the steady bass thud of the music through the soles of his feet, something that reminded him of a snake’s sense of hearing, all rumbling bone conduction.

The mental map agreed with the sweet scent: the angel would be in one of the bars along this street. This area was significant to his plans somehow. Crawley hadn’t asked for the details.

Perhaps he should have. What was an angel doing in a bar, anyway?

Now, how to approach this? If he was lucky, he could spot the angel, walk up to the angel amid the press of people, stab the angel, and then—well, whatever the humans could do to him wouldn’t be too significant, surely. If he  _ wasn’t _ lucky, the angel would see him coming.

The safest thing to do was to lurk. Wait until the angel came out of the club, and then take him down on the street. Fewer humans in the way. Less time for the angel to spot him.

Crawley found a doorway and leaned into it. There should be something—something to do with his hands. He drew the shadows in around him. Veiled his presence. It should work, even against an angel, at least until he moved. And Crawley could stay very still.

It didn’t take long for the angel to emerge. He wasn’t alone when he did. He had with him—not a child, not quite, but surely not mature enough to be an  _ adult _ human. “I don’t get it,” the young human was saying, a little nervously. “You can’t have  _ known. _ Anything about me. But this ID—it has my photo—”

“It won’t be questioned,” the angel assured him. “If I were you, I’d start by applying to Marty Allamby’s place—it’s a tattoo parlor called Vivid Ink. Tell them Mr. Fell sent you and you need work. If Marty doesn’t have a job opening themself, they’ll know who does. Er, it will probably be customer service of some sort, I’m afraid.”

“I’m not afraid of customer service,” the young human assured him. “It’s just—I don’t understand how—” They swallowed. “And I don’t understand why. Why help me? You—” They dropped their voice. “You’re committing  _ fraud. _ For a teenage prostitute. What’s in it for you?”

“Well, I would appreciate it,” the angel said, “when and if you have a business that serves London’s queer community, that you let me know when you spot a runaway in trouble, and possibly give them a fair chance at a job if I send them your way. You see,” he gave the child a smile, which was perhaps a touch mischievous around the edges, “there’s nothing actually supernatural about it. Just good networking.”

“Are you the Saint of Soho?” It came out small and young-sounding.

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you could be talking about.” Unlike the lie about  _ nothing actually supernatural,  _ he didn’t bother to make it sound convincing.

Crawley thought about that as the angel sent the child on their way. The angel had lied, twice, and forged identification. That he was also helping someone who was being exploited—and probably tipping a soul or two into Heaven, just by removing the opportunity for them to do the exploiting—Crawley didn’t doubt that the numbers added up. But it was both underhanded and clever.

Crawley did not think of angels as underhanded and clever.

He wanted to observe. He wanted—

He wanted something mad. He wanted to slither up and  _ talk _ to this angel, this unexpectedly interesting creature, and find out if he was going to do anything else interesting.

But this was the angel that had stolen all his memories, and he  _ had _ to have them back, and even though he felt sick about it—sicker than he had in the War, if that was possible—he had to—

It was stupid. He knew it was stupid. He knew he  _ shouldn’t _ let this unexpectedly clever angel say a word. He knew he should just strike. He was throwing away his advantage.

He surged out of the shadows put the knife up against the angel’s chest, and hissed, “Give them  _ back. _ Now. Or elsse.”

The angel’s eyes widened. Not in fear. Something more like recognition.

Then he miracled himself away.


	3. Chapter 3

Crawley blessed and raced after the scent. It hadn’t gone far. In fact, it was  _ suspicious _ how close the angel’s bolt-hole was. Just a few streets over, easy enough for Crawley to sprint.

He stopped before he reached—a shop, it was some sort of a shop. This was a trap. It was an obvious trap.

The angel expected him to race right into it.

And in pursuit of his memories, it was very tempting. But Crowley was, he liked to think, a little more clever than that. He conjured a half-brick and hurled it through the window of the shop. That might at least let him know what awaited him. There were rumors, talk of some sort of weapon the angels had, one that they had been about to deploy before the Fall—they said they had a way to knit it into physical matter now, water or some such—if Crawley knew the  _ name _ of it, he would surely recall the details, just as he had with movies and bars—

No splash. Nothing dramatic at all, except the clash of the glass.

Crawley frowned at it and stalked forward. Important question: did the angel  _ know _ how well Crawley could smell him? Because if not, he might have an advantage. Could he aim by smell?

He conjured another half-brick and felt a surge of inexplicable revulsion. He told himself firmly that it wouldn’t  _ do _ anything to the angel, discorporate him at most—

But then, Crawley couldn’t get at a discorporated angel, could he? Do that, and he might never get his memories back. He had to—

The angel appeared behind him, transported them both inside the darkened shop, and then, as Crawley spun with the blade, let him go. “What’s the plan?” the angel asked.

Crawley stared at the angel.

"Nobody can see or hear us inside the shop," the angel assured him. "You checked my work yourself, remember?" He straightened his bowtie. "That blade is Hell work. Hastur doesn’t have the brains for this sort of thing, and Dagon wouldn’t see why hurting me would hurt you, so it has to be Beelzebub. Possibly zie watched  _ Othello. _ So are we going to fake a murder?” He sounded hopeful. “I’ve always wanted—"

Crawley imagined, as hard as he could, that the angel was rooted to the floor, unable to transport himself. Then he moved forward, knife first.  _ "Give me back my memories." _

The angel stared at him, and his face crumpled into abject horror. "My love," he whispered, "what have they  _ done _ to you?"

_ My love. _

Anyone else, trying to fake a connection, would go for outrage. Fury at what had happened to Crawley. Crawley was almost expecting that. The angel's naked, raw grief left him off-balance.

"When you say you don't have your memory—” the angel went on, “how much—"

"Why should I tell you?"

It was doing something to Crawley, how heartbroken the angel looked. "Because even if you don't care about me right now, I'm the only one who can help you. You have to know that Beelzebub isn't your friend."

Crawley made himself sneer rather than lower the blade and comfort the angel. "Demons don't have  _ friends." _ A fact that had wounded him more than he cared to admit. How had the Rebellion gone from  _ why not question God _ to  _ why not be dreadful to each other at every opportunity? _ Had that been the goal all along? Had Satan  _ planned _ it that way? He knew not all the angels in the Rebellion had been cruel, so why was cruelty so much a feature of Hell now? "Why would Beelzebub betray me? What's in it for them?"

"To be fair," the angel said, "we betrayed them first. Heaven and Hell both."

"That's suicide. Whatever happened in six thousand years, I am  _ not _ suicidal."

"Since Eden," the angel whispered. "They took everything? When we met?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Well, of course, they would have to. Ever since then . . .". He let that trail off. "You're right. You've only come close to suicide once. After the fire."

"I'm not afraid of fire either."

"No. You're not. You drove through the hottest fire on Earth—your own demonic masterpiece—to save the world. This was a different fire, and it was complicated." The admiration in his gaze was blinding.

Crawley pressed the knife closer. "Now I know you're full of it. I'm a demon _.  _ I don't care about the world." He was, he realized, lying. If the world was destroyed before he got a chance to investigate movies, or fast cars—and when it came down to it, he didn't wish destruction on the teenager the angel had been helping, or any of the people on the street. He wouldn’t mind mildly tormenting them, but that was different. "Or," he went on, with as much cold contempt as he could force into his voice, "are you going to tell me I care that much about  _ you?" _

"Both," the angel said.

Crawley took a deep breath. There was something nakedly sincere about that. When Beelzebub had warned Crawley about the dangers of talking to the angel, he had imagined something more like Satan. Riveting and charismatic, but with an undertone of frost. Always in control, never soft. He hadn't been prepared for soft.

How was he supposed to know? An angel was his natural enemy. But Beelzebub wasn't his friend. If Crawley had betrayed them, they might take revenge this way.

And—the angel wasn't afraid of him.

Rather extraordinarily unafraid, when it came down to it. Crawley had a knife to his throat, and there wasn't a particle of dread in his gaze. It would have been one thing if he had been stoic. But he wasn't. Anything but. He was either an extraordinary actor, or—

"Prove it," Crawley said, and wondered if he was making a horrible mistake.

"All right," the angel said, and then, nodding with determination, "all right. Do you still have your mobile?"

He knew what a mobile was. He had no idea if he had one. He put his hand into his pocket, found no room for a mobile, and miracled one to hand.

"Look up NGC 6543," the angel instructed. "Make sure it looks for pictures."

Crawley took his eyes off the angel for just long enough to give the device a glare, one that meant  _ look up that number or else. _ He didn’t take the blade away from the angel’s throat.

It took only a moment for the human-made square of technology to bring up the image.

Crawley felt as if the angel had punched him. His ears roared.

"You showed me," the angel said softly. "When we first found our cottage by the seaside, you gave me a vision. That very nebula and how it was made, a star destroying itself, throwing veils of gas into the firmament. I'd thought for some time that there was nothing as beautiful as your eyes. I hadn't realized until then that the only thing that could match them is what your eyes see."

Crawley had never heard anyone say something like that without a trace of irony, without sarcasm, without anything but sincerity. "That's not possible," he whispered. "You would have to—to leave yourself completely open, completely vulnerable—" Not just in body, but in mind. Crawley was thinking of committing murder for his memories, and this angel was trying to tell him that he risked a violation like that  _ willingly?  _ And for what? To see something Crawley had made?

(To see the last thing Crawley had made. The last thing he would ever be allowed to make. It ached, deep in whatever passed for his soul, even to think about.)

"Why would you do something like that?" And now he was shouting, furious down to the bone, and he wasn’t even entirely sure why. He shoved the blade through his belt and grabbed the angel by his collar, bunching the fabric in his hands. "How could you possibly be so hideously  _ stupid—" _

The faintest flicker of triumph crossed the angel's lips, and Crawley felt a strange internal lurch as he realized that he had lost. He wouldn't be angry if he didn't care.

Even if he killed the angel right now, he couldn't make himself not care.

"You know I never met you before the Fall," the angel said. "You have a different name now. Heaven has no idea who you used to be. The only way I could know about your art is if you told me." Slowly, gently, the angel took Crawley's dark glasses off. "And you wouldn’t tell an enemy. Let me help you, Crowley."

"What did you call me?"


	4. Chapter 4

_ "Beelzebub!" _

Beelzebub looked up. Zie had been cupping zir hands around a cigarette, trying to keep it from going out. It probably didn't help that the tobacco was from nineteen fifty four. "Crawley," zie said, and couldn't quite restrain a smirk of triumph.

"You told me that killing the angel would solve this!" Crawley hurled a tan garment down at Beelzebub's feet.  _ "Where are my memories?" _

Beelzebub picked up the coat. It had several large rips in it. And the unmistakable gold of angel blood.

It looked as if Crawley had stabbed the angel, and then brutalized the body as it dissolved in a desperate bid to get his memories back.

Excellent.

This would destroy him. Rip him to shreds. He would tell Beelzebub exactly how to become immune to holy water, just so Beelzebub could reverse the process and dissolve him in it.

And everyone who was muttering about Beelzebub's leadership would know that Beelzebub could make them destroy whatever they cared about most, and Beelzebub's throne would no longer be under threat.

"Don't worry," Beelzebub soothed. They miracled in the Lethe staff—a creation of a human sorcerer, who also happened to be the staff's first test subject. "I'll give you back your memories. All of them."

The staff flared violet. The light hit Crawley, and even through the glasses, Beelzebub could see his eyes bubble with purple light.

Crawley fell to his knees, hard, shaking. Beelzebub waited, smiling savagely. The staff had worked almost instantly on its creator, before Beelzebub took his memories for good. But six thousand years was considerably longer—

The shakes subsided. "You see what happenzz," Beelzebub began, "to those who—”

Which was when a tire iron—a  _ flaming _ tire iron, swung by someone who knew exactly how to wield a sword—smashed into the back of zir head.

§

"Crowley! Sorry, Crawley. Are you all right?"

Crowley was shuddering too hard to speak. Aziraphale put his hand on Crowley's shoulder, and Crowley flinched. He couldn't—he couldn't—

Aziraphale took his hand away quickly. "Are you all right?"

There were tears on Crowley's cheeks. Tears coming out of his eyes, and he couldn't stop them.

"You're not all right. Crawley—"

_ "Crowley," _ Crowley gulped.

Crumpled over as he was, Crowley couldn't see Aziraphale's expression change, but he felt it. Felt the relief in the air. "You're back."

_ "I could have—" _ He couldn't say it.

"You never would," Aziraphale said, with unshakeable, maddening faith. He picked up the strange twisty staff. "Let me deal with Beelzebub, my love, and then we can go back home. Let's see, this should be simple enough . . ."

Crowley flinched as the light struck the unconscious Prince of Hell. Just that. Just that had been enough to make him a danger  _ to Aziraphale. _

Aziraphale made a satisfied sound, and bent down to pin a note to Beelzebub's coat, and then, after a considering look, clicked his fingers to change Beelzebub's shoes to something else.

Crowley barely registered. He had almost. He had almost—hurt—worse than hurt—

He couldn't say it. Even to himself.

He couldn't stop shaking.

“You’re in no fit state to drive,” Aziraphale observed. “Here, let me.” He knelt down to touch Crowley.

Crowley flinched.

Aziraphale withdrew his hand instantly. “What’s wrong?”

_ "Don't touch me. _ Not after. Not after  _ what I thought about. _ I don't—I can't— _ I'm not safe. _ You should—you should go."

"I have no intention of doing any such thing."

"Go  _ away!" _

"And leave you to the mercies of Beelzebub? What was that phrase, the one you used when Mrs. Porter was trying to convince you to participate in that police fundraiser ridiculousness—"

"The phrase," Crowley said, raising his head from his hands, "was 'fuck that weak shit,' and you know it perfectly well, you don't need me as some sort of proxy-curser. It's not even dangerous to say, why are you like this?"

"Because you're so much more comfortable with the relevant vocabulary. At any rate—"

There was a faint glint in Aziraphale's eye.

Aziraphale was baiting him, Crowley realized. Reviving an old—"argument" was too strong, an old  _ debate, _ perhaps—to distract Crowley from the unacceptable fact that  _ he had almost hurt Aziraphale. _ _ "Stop it." _

Aziraphale fell silent.

"You can't make this go away. You  _ can't. _ I nearly—"

“But you didn’t. You never would.”

“I—”

_ “Get up there and make some trouble. _ That was the assignment, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, but—”

“What kind of trouble would Hastur have made? Or Ligur?”

Crowley thought about it. “Probably would have killed Adam and Eve.” His voice sounded rough and unsteady. “Destroy the nice new thing God made.”

“What would they have done if they’d managed to get the drop on an angel?”

“They would have killed you.” It sent another shudder through him.

“Which you could have done easily, back then. Well—discorporated, at least. I would have fought, of course, even without my sword, but I didn’t know what venom was. Can’t defend against what you don’t understand. You didn’t know me. You didn’t care about me. But instead of attacking, you did something infinitely braver. You talked. Being on Earth has changed you, yes, and deepened you, but the start of all this was you—exactly you—as you were in Eden.” Aziraphale laid his hand gently on Crowley’s shoulder. “And I will not stand for you castigating yourself for something that didn’t even happen. Do you hear me, Crowley? I won’t  _ stand _ for it. Now, let me take you back to the cottage.”

§

"Heaven couldn't kill the other Traitor." Hastur looked grey as he reported it. "They say he stepped into the fire and  _ laughed _ at them. They say he breathed Hellfire at Gabriel and nearly killed him. They say—"

"They're both—something else," Beelzebub whispered, half to zirself. Something inexplicable. Something horrifying. Something that gave Beelzebub the same sense of creeping menace that humans got when they encountered something demonic and beyond their feeble understanding.

Was this how humans felt all the time? Small, lost?

Beelzebub hated it.

From the look on his face, Hastur hated it worse. "He nearly destroyed me," Hastur said unsteadily. "He had holy water. I was so sure it was ordinary water, I saw the droplet fall on him, but he can  _ bathe _ in the stuff—it was real, it nearly touched me—"

Then there was a blank.

It didn't feel like an enormous blank, but it was a gap.

Beelzebub sat up.

Zie was on Earth, and it was night. In the distance, two humans strolled arm in arm, but otherwise the park was deserted.

Beelzebub’s shoes had been replaced by sparkly things and there was a piece of paper safety pinned to zir shirt.

Zie ripped off the paper and turned it around to read it.

**Beelzebub,** it said.  **Five years ago, I told you that very soon, you would have a chance to find out what else I can do. And since you decided to make a move against me, you just did. You're lucky. You're only missing about five years of your memory.**

**If you bother me again, you might find out what else I can do to your mind. Or you might not. That's the fun thing about minds, isn't it? You don't always know what's different about them unless someone is nice enough to tell you. Decide for yourself whether I'm likely to be nice.**

The note was signed with a line drawing of a snake wearing dark glasses.

_ Icy _ did not begin to describe the dread in Beelzebub's veins. The only thing zie could see as they crumpled the paper was the expression on Crowley’s face—the mischievous, almost endearing scrunch of his nose as he played in a bathtub full of liquid death. Zie retreated into the earth—fled, not to put too fine a point on it—and didn't think to question the changes to zir attire until zie was back in the safety of Hell.


	5. Chapter 5

Crowley cradled his hot cocoa, now spiked liberally with alcohol, and stared down into it. He was a little calmer now. A bit. Enough to be disoriented by viewing the events of the past hour or so both as Crowley and as Crawley.

_ “You’ll have to stab the coat, of course,” Aziraphale had said, hanging it up in the air as if on a living body. “And I’ll have to provide the blood.” _

_ “There won’t be enough blood,” Crawley countered. _

_ “There will. You have no reason to know this, I suppose, but I have a talent for healing. Healing our bodies as well as the humans. Producing angelic blood—it isn’t  _ easy, _ for the same reason that making a body isn’t easy, but I can do it.” _

_ “Angels can’t heal demons,” Crawley protested. “The energies are all wrong.” _

_ “Usually, my love, you’re the one reminding  _ me _ that our former superiors didn’t tell us the truth about everything.” _

_ Crawley was having trouble thinking of Beelzebub as a  _ former _ superior. The idea of not having a hierarchy was . . . seductive. Intoxicating. And for that very reason, he was suspicious of it. He stepped forward and stabbed the coat, with perhaps more force than required. _

_ “I’ll want you to fix that later, of course,” Aziraphale said, as if Crawley naturally went around fixing things for angels who could perfectly well manage it themselves. “I’ve kept that coat in tip-top condition for over a century. Rather attached to it.” _

“Let me see the coat,” Crowley said suddenly.

“Not until you stop shaking,” Aziraphale told him.

“I am  _ not  _ shaking, and I want to see the coat.”

Aziraphale took his hand away from the cocoa, enough to feel the damning tremors in it. “I’m sure. On this occasion, however, I’m afraid you must get used to disappointment.” Crowley put the cocoa aside and started to get up, to get the blessed coat himself, only to find Aziraphale in his way. “Darling. Sit down. Drink your cocoa.”

“The coat—”

“Oh, hang the coat.”

“Who are you and what have you done with my angel?”

Aziraphale looked wounded. “Do you honestly believe,” he said, “that I would care more about some, some  _ rag, _ than your well-being? Because if so, I’ve gone badly wrong somewhere. I want you to sit down. I want you to drink your cocoa, inasmuch as it can still be called  _ cocoa, _ because I  _ did _ see how much you added to it. I want to put a blanket around you and hold you, unless of course it bothers you to be held right now. Please, Crowley. Let me do this.”

Crowley was completely weak against the  _ please. _ But on the other hand . . . he swallowed. “If I fix the coat,” he said, as steadily as he could manage, “it’ll feel less like I—did that.”

Aziraphale studied him, and then said gently, “Sit down. I’ll bring it to you. You’re certain you’ll be all right with the—well, the blood.”

“No,” Crowley admitted, “I’m not sure. I just need to try.”

_ “No, one stab wound won’t do, I don’t think. You said that Beelzebub told you that killing me would restore your memories?” _

_ Crawley nodded. “Because you used some sort of weapon on me. Something tied to your essence.” _

_ “So, let’s think the scene through.” The angel had a bizarre amount of enthusiasm in his voice. “You come up behind me. You stab me, right there. I collapse. But, what’s this? No memories. So, you—do what? You stab again. Perhaps you panic.” _

_ “I don’t panic,” Crawley lied. _

_ “In my experience,” Aziraphale said, “you’re one of the few creatures on the planet who becomes more clever when you’re riding the edge of panic, rather than less. But I’m not sure Beelzebub knows that. So, what does Beelzebub  _ think _ you would do? No, I believe we need more stab wounds. A frenzy. I say, this is rather fun, isn’t it?” _

_ Crawley looked at him. “Fun.” _

_ “Anticipating the opposition! Outthinking them!” He wiggled. “I understand, I think, why Agatha Christie was so prolific. There’s a delight to a scene well created.” _

_ Crawley had no idea what his face was doing. It seemed to be trying for incredulity, amusement, and delight, all in one expression. Angels didn’t wiggle.  _ Angels didn’t wiggle, _ that was some sort of law of the universe, and angels certainly didn’t think a good deception was  _ fun.  _ And yet this angel did. _

“All right?” Aziraphale asked, tentatively.

Crowley nodded jerkily. Angelic blood dried and flaked off like bronze glitter ahead of his hand as he pressed the rent in the cloth together. He wasn’t sure he could stand touching it. “You enjoyed yourself,” he accused.

“Well, yes. When I wasn’t worrying my head off about you.”

It fit, Crowley had to admit. This was an angel who had been so delighted at the idea of tricking Nazis that he had neglected to probe his contact’s mind. Actually, there had probably been several things involved in that particular incident, from Aziraphale’s frustration at how little he was allowed to interfere to the way he generally struggled with people lying to him, but the fact remained: given a chance at espionage against people who really deserved it, Aziraphale would leap in with both feet and not bother to wonder how far down it was.

_ “And a note,” Aziraphale concluded, when the coat had been mutilated to his satisfaction. “We need a note, and you’ll have to write it. My handwriting is entirely too distinctive, and I’m not sure we can count on having the time once Beelzebub is incapacitated.” He handed Crowley a piece of paper. “Let’s see, you wouldn’t say ‘Dear Beelzebub,’ so it would just be, ‘Beelzebub. Five years ago . . .’” He paused expectantly, waiting for Crawley to write it. _

_ Crawley was rankling a bit at the assumption that he would simply do as he was told. But he wrote it. _

You’re lucky. You’re only missing about five years of your memory.  _ “You think we’ll be able to hit zir with the same thing,” Crawley noted. “That’s a big assumption.” _

_ “The logic is thus,” Aziraphale said. “There are only two ways I can think of to get inside your mind. One is to somehow successfully pretend to be me, and engineer a situation where you have to open your mind to me, and I can’t begin to think what that might be. The other is to use some sort of new weapon. If there  _ is _ a new weapon, Beelzebub will have it, and we can use it.” _

_ “You’re sure you can incapacitate a Prince of Hell.” _

_ “Attacking from behind, with all zir attention on you? The difficulty will be not discorporating zir. If zie were a human, I wouldn’t dare. It isn't like your cinematographic shows; concussions can be nasty. But so long as I can avoid crushing zir skull, it should work well enough.” _

_ Crawley eyed him. Physical strength might not matter as much as miraculous power, but Aziraphale was definitely implying that he was very strong. _

_ Very strong, and hadn’t fought Crawley in any way. _

_ “Back to the note, then. I think we need a nice threat. Let's see . . .  _ If you bother me again, you might find out what else I can do to your mind. Or you might not. That's the fun thing about minds, isn't it? You don't always know what's different about them unless someone is nice enough to tell you. Decide for yourself whether I'm likely to be nice.  _ And then—these days, you usually sign your notes with a sort of a sketch of a snake wearing dark glasses. I don’t suppose it has to be exact . . .” _

_ Crawley wasn’t hearing him. Crawley was thinking about the note, feeling the rise of trepidation inside himself and wondering if he was making a horrible, horrible mistake. Angels were ruthless, yes. Angels were cold. But the threat in that note needed a different word. A less angelic word. _

The word, Crowley decided, was  _ bastard. _ And he had never been more glad of it. “What’re you going to do with that staff?”

“Destroy it,” Aziraphale said promptly, “as soon as I can work out how to do that without returning Beelzebub’s memories to zir. I think the staff operates a bit like one of those computer devices you use. Like the peanut in that distressingly frenetic cinema show you forced me to see, the one with the talking pig. It may not lock memories away inside your own mind. There’s a possibility that it takes them out and stores them within itself. And that means that when it’s destroyed, there’s also the distinct possibility that memories will flow back to the past victims based on magical principles.”

Crowley was briefly lost trying to figure out when he had forced Aziraphale to see  _ Babe, _ and how it could be characterized as frenetic, and what peanuts had to do with . . . oh. Right. “It was  _ goober, _ not  _ peanut, _ and ‘Into the Spiderverse’ will be a classic of modern animation. You mark my words.”

“Works do not get to be classics,” Aziraphale said, “by being entirely impenetrable to those who are not familiar with dozens of other sources.”

“James Joyce,” Crowley countered.

He decided he had won the point when Aziraphale weakly countered that  _ Ulysses _ in no way involved talking pigs. After a moment, he also decided that Aziraphale was distracting him on purpose. Again.

It was, perhaps, a bit intimidating how easily Aziraphale manipulated Crowley’s emotions. Putting things back to normal, very deliberately, by baiting Crowley into arguing about movies. And before. Talking Crawley into trusting him, talking Crawley into doing anything he wanted, simply by being open and soft and trusting him hard enough.

Crowley was glad he could do it. Crowley was glad it worked on him even when he wasn’t himself. It felt like a tremendously fragile thread to trust one’s life to, but it wasn’t, was it?

“Tell me something,” Crowley said.

“What is it?”

“What was the point of giving Beelzebub sequined shoes?”

Aziraphale’s mouth quirked. “To tell the truth,” he said, “I just want zir to wonder about it. It doesn’t matter how hard zie tries, zie will  _ never _ figure out what zie would have been doing with those, and I want it to stay in the back of zir mind. Just—there. Just niggling at zir.”

Crowley managed a smile. It helped, it really did, to know that whenever Beelzebub crossed wits with Aziraphale, the Lord of Hell would come away with distinct unease about some silly object or other. Rubber ducks, and now sparkly shoes. Crowley desperately hoped there wouldn’t be a next time, but he still wondered what it would be next time. Kazoos?

“The really amusing thing,” Aziraphale mused, “is that nobody will question the Lord of Hell, and Beelzebub won’t want to admit that zie doesn’t know why zie is wearing them, so there’s at least a  _ possibility _ that zie will just—keep them.”

Crowley felt his fists unclench around the fabric of the coat, and he laughed.


End file.
